Casualties of War
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: A fallen soldier, still standing, reflects.


Disclaimer—Characters belong to Josh Schwartz and Chris Fedak. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarities to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Author's Notes—I was a Brownie once upon a time. I think I'm shocked to know that they are still subjected to those beanies... Because I have a feeling this will be just as AU as everything else, going to go ahead and post it anyway. Happy early Memorial Day. All mistakes are mine.

Spoilers—Um. Tic Tac.

Casualties of War—A fallen soldier, still standing, reflects.

* * *

It used to be just once a year. One time out of three hundred and sixty-five days he would allow the memories to creep up from the deep recesses of his past. He'd remember being a child, carefree. He'd remember being a teenager, in love. He'd remember being Alex Coburn, naive.

Since that fateful day in 1989, he'd only ventured to the cemetery five times.

The first was in 1995. It had been odd. That had been the best way to describe it. The tombstone had his name on it. His birthday. It read: "Beloved Son in Honorable Service." And it had the day that he became John Casey.

A little girl had bounded over with long dark hair in two ponytails. She had a baby blue tunic over a white tee shirt and a matching pair of blue shorts. She wore two different sneakers, one red one and one white one. She placed a flag at the base of his stone before dashing off to join the six or eight other little girls, all dressed alike.

Girl Scouts, he'd realized.

The odd sensations had quickly grown exceedingly uncomfortable the longer he stood there. After all, he was being honored as a fallen soldier but he was still standing, still serving.

He'd left quickly.

He'd returned two years later, an arm in a cast and unable to see out of his swollen left eye.

Again, a local Girl Scout troop was busy honoring the war dead. A brunette skidded to a stop by his headstone. She wore brown vest covered in patches over a gray button-up and brown cargo pants. Her shoes, flip flops, matched.

A feeling of dread had overtaken him suddenly as he watched the girl place a crisp flag in the ground. He had told himself, or tried to, that it was just because it was a day to remember all soldiers who had previously fallen in battle.

It hadn't worked exactly.

He'd missed the next three years, finally returning again in 2000. He'd waited until nearly dusk, long after the local troops had placed the memorial flags. With trepidation, he approached his empty spot.

Someday, he'd realized, he really would be in the ground. He'd hoped he'd be buried at home, somewhere, where some other scout would skip along and leave a flag for him. Really him.

His thoughts had drifted to Ilsa. She'd never made it home. The explosion still bothered him, seeing the burnt, broken remnants of her camera.

He'd wondered if it still bothered Kathleen because that had been the story. An unavoidable accident. A casualty of war. The cost of doing business.

He straightened the flag a little.

He ventured again in 2006, before Bryce and the Intersect computer. Before Chuck and Burbank.

The girl then had been tall, a teenager. He wasn't entirely sure what the female equivalent to an Eagle Scout was, but he imagined that was what she was going for.

She'd paused at his grave, the girl with the soft dark hair, blue jeans and white polo. She took a moment to brush the dirt from the top of the stone, her hand resting against the smooth granite for an extra moment.

Now that he stood there again, just over twenty years since Alex had died, since he'd seen—just briefly—another another Alex, _his_ Alex, the pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place.

It had been the same girl. Always the same girl. The same dark hair, the same bright eyes. The same nose and chin.

Kathleen's features.

His daughter.

How close he'd been all along and yet so far away. Cover life and real life, almost colliding.

He pushed his aviator sunglasses further up his nose, squaring his shoulders.

They'd both grieved in their own ways, for a life they'd never known. For one they'd never have.

And, unwittingly, they'd done it together.

End.


End file.
